X-Wives: Origins
by madame.alexandra
Summary: or, How Gibbs Met Each of the Ex-Wives, using a title that's a clear ode to the X-Men comics.
1. Diane

_a/n: pretty straightforward. a collection that just shortly expounds on how Gibbs met each of his exes._

* * *

_Diane_

* * *

To be fair, he was driving too fast – he was always driving too fast, even when he wasn't in a car chase or speeding to a crime scene – and he thought he had a split second to make it – but it turned out the sleek black BMW that crashed into the rear end of his federal car was moving just as fast.

He was just glad he'd seen it coming, and swerved sharply to avoid a head-on collision.

He slammed on his breaks and halted the car sharply, gritting his teeth; this was exactly what he needed, more goddamn paperwork. He tilted his head back against the seat, glaring balefully at the ceiling for a moment – and then he figured he better see if the other driver was –

There was a sharp, aggressive tap on his window.

He looked over, and met a pair of crisp, sharp hazel eyes fringed with thick, long black lashes – he was being stared down.

A quick glance at the other car told him this was its driver; he set his jaw and opened his car door, watching her step pointedly back to let him get out. He didn't even have both feet on the asphalt before she lit into him.

"What kind of oblivious idiot do you have to be to drive like that?" she demanded in an icy, confident voice.

She crossed her arms as he gave her a look and rested his arm on the top of his car door, looking at her intently.

"Are you a creature of lesser intelligence, or just one of those men with such a severe inferiority complex that you think the rules of the road don't apply to you?" she fumed coolly.

She had long, perfectly manicured nails, and one of them tapped with agitation on her elbow as she lit into him; her lips pursed in a tight, formidable pucker, and she had shoulder-length, thick, voluminously curled - red hair.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs stared at her, counting silently – staring at her long enough for her eyes to flicker with more annoyance, and right when he knew he'd about goaded her into snapping at him again, he snorted.

"Inferiority complex?" he repeated mildly.

She arched an eyebrow at him.

"Men who drive like thugs tend to be doing so out of insecurity concerning the size of their manhood."

Gibbs arched an eyebrow at that, mildly taken aback – it wasn't very often that women he'd never laid eyes on before insulted the size of his – _manhood_.

He decided then and there that Madam BMW was probably a hell of a good time - and attractive to boot.

He pointed at her, keys in his hand.

"You were drivin' too fast," he growled lightly.

She pointed to herself; finger pressing against a necklace nestled at the top of her blouse.

"I had the right of way!" she snapped confidently. She gestured sharply at the light. "I had an arrow – you _yield_ on a left turn on green, Mr. – "

"Gibbs," he supplied, before she could ask. "Special Agent," he added pointedly.

She grit her teeth.

"I suppose you're going to tell me you're on your way to some vitally important place," she said sarcastically.

He nodded his head at her, and flashed a smirk.

"Yes, Ma'am."

They were causing traffic problems; cars were going around them but their wreck was slowing things down.

He saw the fire flare back into her eyes, and he leaned forward.

"You hurt?" he asked.

She looked taken aback, and then she quickly put the intimidating scowl back on her face.

"What?" she demanded.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, carefully articulating each word.

She stared at him, and then she frowned.

"No," she said shortly. She turned, and gestured at her car, compressing her lips tightly. "This is a brand new car, _Special_ _Agent_ Gibbs," she spat nastily.

He looked at where she was pointing, and did her the favor of grimacing a little; technically, this was his fault – he thought he could hit the gas hard and make it, and get to the crime scene that much faster – Franks was going to bury him alive.

"Why the hell did you try to make that turn?" she demanded.

He looked back at her, holding her gaze for a minute, and then he grinned.

"Didn't expect anyone to be goin' as fast as me," he said.

She stepped closer.

"Wipe that smirk off your face," she hissed. She looked past him, and spotted the perks of his federal car. "Get your insurance company on the phone," she demanded, gesturing over his shoulder to the built-in phone. "You do have insurance?"

He nodded, and stepped away from the car door, looking around at the chaos – someone had called a police officer, and he was approaching; probably just to ensure there was nothing suspicious going on.

Gibbs cleared his throat.

"You're gonna need a ride," he pointed out.

She looked at him sharply; she'd been distracted by the blue and red lights.

"Excuse me?"

He jerked his head at her car.

"Bumper's busted, power steering's probably screwed," he said smartly.

"What are you, a grease monkey on the side?"

He shrugged.

"I know a thing or two," he drawled.

He folded his arms and nodded towards the police.

"You want them involved?" he asked.

"I wouldn't mind seeing handcuffs on you," she snarled at him, her hazel eyes sharpening into chips.

He gave her a wary look, and leaned forward, resting his arms on the car door again.

"You got to let me buy you dinner first," he said.

She stared at him – he had the feeling throwing that out was a huge risk, and he waited a moment to see if she'd rip him a new one, or be charmed –

She licked her lips, and then shook her head, looking over at her car. She looked back, and she was smirking – reluctantly, maybe; but smirking all the same.

"You've got a lot of nerve," she said, her voice a little warmer, huskier.

He shrugged, and nodded, acknowledging that.

"You let the cops take names, your insurance goes up, too," he said. He glanced over at the mashed up BMW again. "Damage like that's only from high-speed collision," he pointed out wryly.

She grit her teeth; he was right about that, even if he had technically caused the accident. She threw a glance at the approaching officer, and then she retreated to her car, and whipped something out of her purse.

She came back over, black-heeled boots clicking musically on the asphalt, and she stepped closer to him, leaning against his car door in front of him. She wrote in elegant, cursive handwriting on the back of a business card.

"You can call my insurance company for a quote," she said, dotting an eye swiftly, and then scrawling something else, "and me," she added, flicking her eyes up at him through her lashes, "for a drink – which you will pay for."

She slipped the card into his hand.

"Gibbs," she remarked sharply, asking an unspoken question.

He flipped over the card and looked at it, smirking – it was an IRS contact card, with a desk number, and some tax division mumbo-jumbo.

"Leroy Jethro Gibbs," he supplied, waiting a few seconds to look at her.

She looked at him with pursed lips and one raised eyebrow, and then she said –

"I…don't think I'm surprised."

He folded the card in his hand, memorizing her name, and gave her a short nod.

"You like bourbon?" he asked casually. He smirked at her. "Diane?"

Before she could answer, he turned to greet the metro cop that was approaching – the guy was young, and looked wary – and pulled out his badge pointedly, flipping it open – he had the situation under control –

-and he'd at least be able to mitigate Franks' fury with a description of the hot little number that had waylaid him – and the BMW, too.

* * *

_Diane_

* * *

_s/o to my friend Rachel, who sort of gave me this idea with a comment she made in a review. also, a PSA: remember to yield on a left hand green turn. because last semester some idiot didn't, and he really fucked up my friends' car / scared the shit out of me when the glass rained down on my side of the car. _

_-alexandra  
story #249_


	2. Rebecca

_a/n : this one is my_ _favorite, even if Gibbs is being a bit naughty_!

* * *

_Rebecca_

* * *

He had gone to the bar, instead of going home to sit in the dark quiet – the bar where he could toast the agency fallen, although Mike Franks wasn't fallen – he'd quit, stormed out, and Leroy Jethro Gibbs had been promoted on the spot – what a hell of a day.

He'd ordered a bourbon straight – but it hadn't been the usual retired Marine bartender who'd slid it to him, it had been a younger woman – someone with long, red-gold hair, who'd been leaning behind the bar chatting casually when he walked in, and who had somehow ended up next to him at the bar –

\- and whose long, silky, tangled red-gold hair he was staring at this morning.

It wasn't that he hadn't remembered taking her home; he just hadn't really expected her to stay. In his – albeit limited – experience with picking women up at bars – and he hadn't even intended to, last night – they usually woke up sober and sorry, and snuck out.

He blinked heavily a few times and stared at her hair; he didn't mind that she had stayed.

He'd been sleeping on the couch since his divorce – gentleman that he was, he didn't dare keep her in the living room – and he'd forgotten how much more comfortable a mattress was.

She lifted her hand and pushed her hair away from her face, holding it back and looking at him lazily.

"Have I overstayed my welcome?" she asked in a low, laid-back tone.

Her voice was smooth, unconcerned, and she smirked at him as she stretched gracefully and rolled onto her side. She rested her head on her arm and shifted her legs carelessly; he noticed she didn't pull the sheets up around her naked body, and she didn't shiver in the cool air.

He propped his head up on his palm and shrugged; he shook his head.

She licked her lips, and then lowered her lashes with a soft sigh.

"Good," she murmured. She reached out and pressed her fingertips against his chest, parting her lips slightly. "You didn't waste time dragging me back here," she purred softly. "I might take it the wrong way if you chased me out."

He arched his eyebrow at her.

"_Me_?" he snorted gruffly. "You dragged me outta there," he remembered pointedly.

She lifted her shoulders in a feminine shrug, and waved her hand, pulling it back towards her. She brushed her hair back again, and cut him a flirtatious grin.

"You can remember it," she said airily, "in whatever way makes you feel best."

He smirked at her, and let his eyes run over her with unabashed intensity, taking in what he'd missed in the darkness of last night. She didn't seem to mind; she didn't stop looking at him coolly with pale blue eyes.

She shifted, and then she pushed herself up on her palms, and she moved towards him. She brushed her lips against his jaw, and slipped her body over his, pushing the sheets away. She settled her knees near his abdomen, and automatically he placed his palms on her thighs.

He blinked, and the smirked; he thought it was unexpected. This sort of casual thing wasn't usually so – extended.

She seemed to read his mind – or his facial expressions, and she licked her lips, leaning close to him.

"You're used to women who slink out, aren't you?" she asked. "That's the final step of the one night formula, hmm?"

He caught her eye.

"Men do it to," he said wryly.

"And yet you're still here."

"It's my house," he retorted, sliding his hands up her legs.

"Mmm," she murmured, and then she brushed her lips against his. "I leave if I lose interest," she told him huskily. She smirked. "I'm still interested."

He nudged her chin with his and then kissed her; she still tasted like alcohol – not whiskey, he noticed; something lighter, sweeter, more typically feminine – and she smelled good – faded perfume.

"How attached are you to - _Jethro_?"

He broke the kiss, catching her eye. Her gave her a look.

"My name?" he grunted slowly. He paused, and then shrugged. "It's a habit," he drawled.

"You asked me not to call you Leroy," she murmured – he remembered that; when she'd had his I.D., when she'd been playing bartender; she'd said it and he corrected her, because that had been his ex-wife's thing – and a Stillwater thing.

She bit her lower lip, and tilted her head.

"I can't take you seriously," she murmured, "if I'm going to be screaming _Jethro_."

He grinned at her, his hands pausing on her inner thighs.

"You got somethin' in mind?"

"I like the letter – J."

He shrugged; he nodded, and circled one arm around her hips, pulling her down onto him more firmly – he'd touched his lips to hers again when he froze, his wrist tensing – had he forgotten, or had she not - ?

It was the first time in a while he felt like scum, and he didn't want to ask – to make it worse –

She smiled, giving him a wink.

"It's Rebecca," she said huskily.

Her hair fell over her shoulder and brushed his chest, long, straight, and thick – she laughed softly.

"I know," he said gruffly.

She licked her tongue.

"Liar," she breathed, and touched his bottom lip with her index finger. "I never told you, last night," she confessed slyly.

He met her eyes intently, and he smirked – he tightened his grip on her, turned her over, and pulled her under him.

"Rebecca," he growled pointedly, pressing his lips to hers.

She stayed all day – she didn't leave her number, but she told him she hung around that bar a couple times a week – the bartender was an old friend – and the next time he found his way there, he took her to dinner before he took her home.

* * *

_Rebecca_

* * *

_-alexandra_


	3. Stephanie

_a/n: last one! and mentions of Jenny, of course. _

* * *

_Stephanie_

* * *

He took the elevator down to autopsy, mildly curious about what Ducky wanted – he'd already briefed him on the results of the current case. The medical examiner was here later than usual, which meant Victoria Mallard was probably at one of her bridge nights – those were the only nights Ducky was off the hook.

He stepped off the elevator and strolled through the automatic doors, slowing his stride when he saw Ducky leaning casually on one of the autopsy tables, engaged in conversation with a woman.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs slipped his hands into his pockets as he approached, narrowing his eyes intently. The woman was leaning on the silver table, too – she looked strangely comfortable doing so, considering what the slabs were used for.

Ducky spotted Gibbs, and straightened up. He beamed, and raised his hand in greeting, beckoning him over.

"Ah, Jethro," he said. "Come – I want to show you this."

Ducky had a suspicious light in his eye, and Gibbs approached warily, sparing a subtle, side-glance at the woman.

She had turned her head and was watching him with light green eyes. He was relieved they were so light – he'd seen the long, loose red curls from behind and thought for a moment –

"They've come up with these new instruments," Ducky was saying, gesturing to a sleep leather case laid out on the table, "with grips that resist sweat – look," he picked up a scalpel, showing its new design.

"Ergonomic," the woman said. "Designed for maximum precision – sharper, too," she explained, and flashed a winning, soft smile.

Gibbs glanced at her, and then glanced at Ducky pointedly.

"That what you called me down here for?" he asked abruptly.

Ducky turned to him, and smiled.

"Ah, well, forgive me," he said, clearly unapologetic. "I forget not all of my colleagues find new equipment so exhilarating."

Gibbs gave him a look, and rolled his eyes, turning on his heel.

"Jethro, wait a moment," Ducky called, rubbing his hands together matter-of-factly. "I did wonder if you might escort Miss Flynn here out of the building – it can be quite the maze, for the novice."

Gibbs stared at the older man, his jaw set – he had a hunch that the entire point of the call had been to get him down here to interact with this woman – that would explain the glint in Ducky's eye, and his blithe attitude.

Gibbs glared at him, and then looked over at her, nodding shortly.

"This is Jethro, Stephanie," he said, gesturing, "the agent I'm always mentioning."

She nodded, and extended her hand; Gibbs held his out, and shook hers firmly.

"Jethro, Stephanie Bronwyn-Flynn; she's the sales representative for my medical supply company."

Gibbs nodded cordially again, and she smiled – she had a good handshake; she was a very attractive woman, and she didn't look too young for him – he was trying to make a change; stay away from the ones who looked a little too young.

He pointed at the autopsy table.

"You're not squeamish?" he asked gruffly.

She shook her head confidently, shrugging.

She patted the table with her free hand.

"I sell them," she said, and laughed. "I know what goes on them."

He thought that was refreshing – the last woman he'd been involved with had been ridiculously squeamish considering the career choice she'd made.

Gibbs looked at Ducky, and then looked at Stephanie – she looked expectant, and he turned, beckoning to her.

"I'll show you out," he said neutrally.

He waited until she walked ahead of him, following his gesture, and then he shot Ducky a menacing glare. The medical examiner smiled blithely and waved him on, giving him a small wink. Gibbs turned his back on Ducky and left, wary of the situation – it felt like a set-up, and his personal life wasn't any of Dr. Mallard's business; he wondered if this had something to do with the probing questions Ducky seemed to have about – _her_ – decision to stay in Europe.

He held the elevator door for Stephanie, paused at the buttons.

"Parking garage?" he asked.

"No, I'm at a meter, street level," she said pleasantly.

He selected the main floor.

He leaned back against the elevator and looked at her – she was dressed professionally, but more artistically than she was used to; her dress reminded him of the seventies.

She turned and looked at him, smiled a little, and faced the front. She turned around again after a moment, and tilted her head.

"I could have made it out myself," she said.

Gibbs nodded, and smirked.

"Duck's an old world gentleman," he said neutrally.

She nodded, parting her lips.

"He had an ulterior motive," she remarked.

"Figured that," Gibbs said, catching her eye knowingly.

"I asked him if he knew any nice men," she revealed wryly.

Gibbs snorted, and arched his eyebrow.

"He must not like you very much."

Surprised, she laughed, her eyes widening. She smiled, though – and he realized he liked her smile, and her laugh. It was a genuine laugh; she didn't sound sarcastic, or superior, or like she was about to start teasing him with head games or riddles – he'd fallen for that a few too many times lately.

"Why do you say that?" she asked, amused.

Gibbs shrugged, and turned one corner of his mouth up.

"I'm not _nice_."

She considered him for a moment, thoughtful; she tried to discern if he was serious – and he felt, at least to some extend, that he was giving fair warning – he'd started to think, from recent experience, that he wasn't very … nice.

"I think I should be allowed to decide for myself," she said bravely – and he got the idea that she was taking a chance being forward, like maybe she wasn't usually like that.

The elevator doors opened, and she stepped out. He followed her, and then stood on the door, stretching out his arms and bracing them on the doors.

"He tell you I been divorced twice?" he asked bluntly.

Ducky had given him hell for the way he _treated_ Diane and the way he _enabled_ Rebecca; he was hard-pressed to believe the guy was sending women his way.

Stephanie tilted her head, and nodded thoughtfully.

"Yes," she conceded. "But haven't you ever heard that the third time's the charm?"

He studied her for a moment, and then he gave her a small smile – optimistic of her, but he figured he at least owed it to Ducky to give her a chance – he didn't want to make their friendship awkward.

Gibbs stepped out from the elevator door, and gestured down the hall, leading her to the exit, his hand hovering just near her lower back – without touching her –

"We might not want to skip straight to marriage – " she began.

"Nah," he agreed.

"So, I hear you like coffee," she remarked suggestively.

He looked down at her, and grinned.

* * *

_Stephanie_

* * *

_-alexandra  
xoxo_

_thank you for reading! _


End file.
